Signum Fidei
by SilverCascade
Summary: Samandriel is subject to another round at the hands of a demon, before an angel on a mission (and a couple of familiar faces) come to the rescue. Set after A Little Slice of Kevin. Two-shot, canon-compliant. (warning: torture)
1. One

**A/N:**_ I know I'm a bit late to the 'rescue Samandriel' party. I fought off every urge to write this after watching 'A Little Slice of Kevin', choosing to give canon a week to fix this angel's storyline... but it didn't! So here's my spin on how Samandriel could have been rescued. Also, thanks to Shauna for being a great beta! :3_  
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Samandriel cannot feel a thing. He closes his eyes, relishing the sweet relief a moment longer, before he screams as the blade comes down again. It cuts into his flesh, his bone, his _grace_. It is like a hundred thousand needles concentrated into one point where the glimmering angelic blade strikes. He screams. The warm, sticky blood runs along his cheek, mixing with salty tears as he sobs.

His wings are tattered; the torn muscles, tinged red, sit folded and trembling. Usually they shimmer a golden-beige, and though they are not particularly large or majestic, the angel has always been proud of them. Crowley had seen this in the innocent's eyes as well as the frightened way he looked behind him as the head demon drew the stolen blade. Samandriel paid the price; the angel blade nicked the feathers out one at a time, taking with it hunks of flesh, leaving exposed his pink, solid muscle. He bled, and the scarlet pools ran into the shining feathers, turning a dull copper, sticky with blood as they fell to the floor.

Samandriel screamed the most then, as the demon's thick fingers pulled out clumps of feathers and slashed at the muscle. He could only watch, sobbing, as they drifted to the ground, followed by thick rivulets of scarlet.

As a new demon stands before him, glittering onyx eyes of malice and hate, and swings down his arm over and over again, the angel knows it to be better than the torture he has endured. He screams – of course he does; it hurts, it _burns_ – but even to his own ears, the cries are thin and exhausted.

_At least he spares my wings._

The demon cackles, pulling away again. His black eyes survey the damaged, bleeding angel before him, which his master had previously worked on so well. Red rivers drip along his torn torso, and his face is contorted in an expression of terror. Blood drips from every cut and gash. His nose runs and his eyes squeeze shut. A ripple of pleasure runs through him; the angel is positively broken. "Not so strong now, are we?" he says with a satisfied smirk.

"What... do… you _want_?" cries the angel. He knows better than to think it is over; it is not, nor will it be for a while. The nameless demon does not reply, but turns to the table behind him. Metallic hisses ring out as he sharpens the blade.

Samandriel is allowed another rare moment of relief, and he feels it, thankful again that the King of Hell has left him. His breathing strains as he fills his lungs with stale air that tastes of sweat and fear. This demon, possessing a true face so mangled and torn and unnatural, is merely a novice; the angel sees this even through his swimming vision. Despite the pain he has endured, and despite everything, he is grateful.

"Angelic scum! Who's the better creation now – us, or you self-righteous bastards?" spits the dark-haired demon; the point comes down again, slicing Samandriel's throat in a swift vertical motion. His cries of agony ring through the air, settling to a whimper. He looks up at his tormentor, eyes wide and frightened, and hopes the vessel Alfie does not feel anything. The celestial being does his best, shielding the human's soul from the worst of the damage, but he fears he cannot keep up the protective wall much longer. His skin is slick with sweat at the tremendous effort he expels to stay conscious.

The demon stares back, mocking grin placed square on his face, long, white fingers supporting the blade. He holds it carefully, knowing if the point touches his unholy skin, he will feel the wrath of Heaven in all its mighty glory.

"I know what you're thinking, little brat," he says, smile widening, "and hearing you squeal like a pig at slaughter is worth the danger this thing poses to me. Now talk." His inky eyes fix on the being bound to the ragged metal chair. _Crowley is clever, binding him with sigils._ "My master will not let you go until you speak."

"He… he won't… won't let me go… at all…" pants the blond angel, and the sting of the blade cuts him again. He hisses in agony, and the relief returns.

Thin beams of sun, like weak slides shuttering open, slither through the high windows covered in wrought-iron ornaments. They force through, bending and turning to free themselves; Samandriel turns his attention to the streaks of golden-yellow. The demon notices his expression; a hint of a smile forming at bloody lips at the beauty of his Father's creation and the growing sense of his peace. The demon is not happy.

"I abhor you," he sneers. "Smiling at sunshine and rainbows and all things glittery. Disgusting." With a snarl, brings down the blade at random, again and again and again. The angel screams, and then, under his breath, he does something he has not done in a long time, not even when fighting alongside his garrison through the hordes of monsters in Purgatory.

He prays.

He prays not to his Father, who most certainly is not art in Heaven as of late, nor does he pray to his garrison for help, for they are occupied. He prays, after all this time, to his oldest and wisest and deceased brothers. He prays to the fierce archangels he respects and loves dearly; they had never seen much in the little one, but he, even now, sees them as the light of his world.

He prays to Michael, the burning bright warrior, the sun that sought to do nothing but please his Father. He prays to Lucifer, the fallen morning star, the one who did not deserve his prejudiced fate. He prays to Raphael, the mighty power, the strong one who only wanted the right and the just to reign supreme. He prays to Gabriel, the joy and laughter, the trickster whose mockery did not save him from his heart.

And as the point of the stolen blade fashioned from his own grace, stabs into him again, he screams. Through the cacophony of his own terror, he offers up more prayers to his brethren fallen; to Anna, the valiant, the first to challenge their Father. To Balthazar, who passed not once but twice, his presence always shining with brilliance. Finally, he prays to the brother who still lives, who gives everything for his human friends, the one who he searched for alongside his garrison before being summoned to retrieve the prophet. He prays to Castiel.

For fleeting moments, when the darkness of the pain clears and the demon brings his hand up before lashing down, he swears he feels it - celestial power, a dwindling supply but still larger than his own, throwing open the doors and swilling the dungeons clean of its hellish horror. Samandriel's cries fill the air, and as the waves of energy only he feels sweep over him, time after time, he knows it to be true.

Someone, some angel is here. Here to save the prophet, and to, perhaps, save him.

In an instant he cringes at the thought; he does not deserve to be saved, not after spilling all of Heaven's secrets under torture at which his big brothers and sisters would not even flinch. But some small part of him, and he wonders how much so, clings onto that hope. Whichever angel it is, perhaps they would take pity and free him.

He blinks back the tears of pain and lifts his head up to the light; the fine beams pour over his skin, warming it. He feels, for the first time since Crowley slashed him open, the darkness seep out. His grace glows a little brighter.

The demon falters, warily eyeing the now-smiling angel, and wonders if it is due to his lack of skills in the torture department. He shakes his head; he may be new, but by no means was he useless. "I'll put you in your place, you good-for-nothing treetopper." He smirks and drags the blade through the angel's arm, earning a ragged cry. "Now speak."

"I… there is nothing… nothing left to tell."

"Talk!"

Samandriel feels his grace give with the next impact fuelled by the darkness' rage, and the pain in his throat tells him the vessel hurts, hurts all over, and hurts incredibly. Alfie strains against Samandriel's hold, begging to be allowed to take some of the pain from the angel. Samandriel knows the human cannot cope, will not be able to cope, and he fights back, urging him to stay down and let the angel take the pain - all of it. He fights two battles, one outside and one within. His fingers grip the arm of the rusted metal chair, his prison, tight. He breathes hard.

He almost doesn't feel the pain - almost - and after much mental exhaustion, he pushes the human soul back. Samandriel can taste his own demise, and it is so very close. Feeling only remorse at the forceful action but knowing Alfie is now safe, Samandriel turns his attention to the slit flesh; thick streams of blood ooze out, and he bites his lips as the tears slide down his face. _I'm sorry, Alfie,_ he thinks, _but it is for the best._

"You will talk." The beast's voice is soft and low. And then the blinding white pain is back; the demon twists the knife into his shoulder, metal scraping bone. He tries not to scream, but it is in vain; a pitiful howl wrenches itself from his throat, and the demon grins. The power that seemed so close has faded into the background, and as a sinking feeling settles in his gut, Samandriel realises the angel is gone. _But so is the prophet,_ he realises, mind slow and spinning from the intense pain. _So is Kevin._

The monster pauses and cocks his head to the side, as if listening to a call from his own kind. Samandriel can no longer focus, and the blackness behind his eyelids blurs with the stark white dots, and he feels nauseous. The pain begins to become too much. He whimpers. The demon shrugs, and dismisses the call to arms; cries and yelps and explosions of energy ring in the grotty hallways, and Samandriel does not dwell upon them. He bites his tongue, bracing himself for another round with the demon that wields his weapon.

It is then that the door is swung open on its rusty hinges; a loud creak echoes through the air, and light, though dim and ashy, pours into the room. Samandriel feels the colossal wave of energy enter, and he knows. The demon turns and the angel's gaze follows. They see a shadow in the doorway, distinctly a person; Samandriel sees a dusky blue outline, and his human heart thuds heavily in his chest.

The angel – for Samandriel is sure that is what the shape in the doorway is – curses under their breath, and calls out, into the corridor lit with flickering fluorescent bulbs, "In here, he's in here! I've found him."

"Another? This is just great," the demon growls, before leaping towards her – the voice is distinctly female – and attempts to catch her off guard; he is no match as she stops him with her outstretched palm. Light pours into his skull, swallowing any darkness, and the demon ceases to be. His stolen body falls.

Samandriel's eyes are fixed on her as she hurries to his side, the curly blonde hair of her vessel swinging forward and back in waves around her shoulders. Her eyes are a soft brown, but her gaze is clear and wise and brimming with worry. She reaches to untie his bonds, but he calls out, stopping her just in time.

"They're…" he pants, now beginning to realizing how exhausted he is. "They've got sigils… binding sigils…"

"Oh, Samandriel," she murmurs, "what have they done to you?" She pulls out her own angelic weapon, silver and shining; he flinches involuntarily, but she only tries to hack at the leather bonds in which are carved the symbols that bind him tight. The blade has no effect, and she curses again in Enochian. Samandriel does not understand what she means; the language sounds all wrong sliding from a human's lips.

As the mystery angel searches the room for anything that may have an effect on the thick, enchanted material, he wonders who she is. Her grace is powerful and still intact, but he does not recognise her from his garrison. "Who… are…" is all he manages to whisper, and she glances up at him, eyes sad.

"I am Barbelo," she states, "but they call me Bel." Her eyes waver over his body; she displays no outward emotion, but her stomach churns and she flinches every time she sees a deep wound. "My garrison and I are on a mission to rescue you."

Her eyes divert to the table where the instruments of torture sit, and her slim, lightly tanned hands hover over them; Samandriel's eyes do not wander from her, and for a split second he wonders if she is going to hurt him too. Then he sees the kindness, and he banishes the ugly thought. She selects a knife, albeit a blunt one, and cuts away at the straps; they give easily and the young angel bundles out, trying to stand, but his trembling knees barely support him. He takes a slow step forward and Barbelo wonders if he will be able to walk at all. His legs give way and he crumples to the ground.

_If he can't stand,_ she thinks, _he is not going to be able to teleport back to Heaven. Oh, Samandriel. You do not deserve this._

Barbelo rushes to her brother's side, swinging his bloody arm over the shoulder of her brown jacket and hoisting him upward. His muscles are heavy as fatigue takes hold, and she realises that the poking and prodding is not Crowley's only method of torture; Samandriel has not rested in days. She chokes back a sudden sob, and staggers forward, the dead weight slung across her left side. The strength of an angel, though strurdy, is not quite enough to support the weight of another angel completely, not in full force; Barbelo feels the heaviness of the younger angel weigh her down, and she struggles to keep standing up, let along walk on. Her vessel is not the strongest either, and she sinks, almost falling to her knees before…

Well, to this day, she cannot fully explain it.

The weight eases off her shoulders, and balances it between herself and the unseen force. Too startled to question, Barbelo steps forwards with ease, balancing the groaning angel on her shoulder. The load grows lighter still, as if someone else has taken a share, and between them, they jostle and shuffle the broken baby angel out of the closeted room and into the hall, where they pause a moment to get their breaths back.

Surprise writes itself over the angel's face, and she wonders what the phenomenon is; her gaze sweeps over her little brother, drooping and bloody, and looks past the pain to see if he sees, no, if he _feels_ the weight being lifted. But his eyes are puffy and swollen shut, and his breaths are shaky and trimmed with moans of hurt.

"Samandriel," she says, and the angel raises his head slowly; she sees the pain in his eyes, and the guilt swarms in. But she has to ask. "Do you feel it?"

He does not speak – he cannot speak – but he swallows and nods.

Reassured that it is not only in her mind, they stagger on, step after painful step balanced by two unknown forces. Each endeavour takes them to the light. She would transport him, but his body, so battered and bruised, would not withstand the energy. _Human vessels,_ she thinks, _so weak._ _But it is his grace for which I worry._

A flex of her fingers and a shuffle of her feet later, she drags and hauls him through the rusting, green-brown doors, which swing open before she even touches them.

The light, blinding and pure, floods into the grey air, and the angels stumble out, stunned by the sudden glare. Barbelo holds her breath and she looks at Samandriel. His grace flickers, and it does what it needs to. The glow around the young man standing doubled over, firstly non-existent, now brightens, and his mouth drops open. A flood of blue light streams through, and he screams a silent scream. The grace, the blue core, his very equivalent of a soul, is repairing itself.

Barbelo knows, from experience in the great Civil War of Heaven, that it is a painful process. It is the equivalent of torture at the hands of your own true form as your grace twists and stretches, claws and rolls, until it has settled completely. But you know it is for the best, so you endure it.

As the blue light streams off the vessel, she shields her eyes, but still is unable to turn away; through the flares of white, she swears she sees two silhouettes standing beside the young angel and beside her, dark and outlined in a deep blue. They hold him up. By the colour and sheer energy expelled by their presence, she understands. Her heart locks.

A laugh rings out, a song that Barbelo has not heard in what feels like forever; she identifies it as a brother, long gone, the only one who ever really made a sound so human. Her eyes well up, and she swallows the growing lump in her throat; the other shape – the other angel – smiles as their visages, and the shape of their favourite human hosts are revealed.

Nobody knows where an angel goes when they die. Nobody, not even the angels themselves, know; but they do not fear the horseman Death, not even in battle or at the hands of their Father. They know, no matter what, they live and die to serve Him.

But even so, as the presences appear, heavy and as solid as a presence can be, the blonde angel's heart pounds against her vessel's ribs; she knows it to be no illusion, yet still she cannot place what is occurring. The wonder of Samandriel's healing does not diminish either; the vessel's glow dims, and it is crumbling. The blood trickles through his matted brown hair, now dark burgundy with his own life-giving substance. He smiles.

Samandriel is thankful when the painful healing process is over; he falls to the ground. He knows his sister cannot see his pain, not completely, and appreciates that. It is his burden to pay alone, for the crime of betraying his people.

His eyes are large and the tear-stained face stares up, innocent yet corrupt, as Barbelo holds him in her arms. His weight does not seem so heavy anymore, and his healing assists his strength. Although bruised, he appears to be at peace.

As his grace heals, by default, his wings do too. But still he feels them, ragged and raw from the blunt blades of the demonkind. They ache. Not the dull throb of a joint pain or the telltale rumble of toothache, no. This ache is like the crushing of muscles in a vice - strong, painful and persistent.

"Did you… did you see… them… also?" Samandriel asks, words barely a whisper; he tries to drown out the agony of the ache. It is Barbelo's turn to nod, and she does so, her eyes watery. "It was… them," he says, and he smiles again; the simple gesture lights up his whole face and fills him with calm.

"I know," she whispers back, and she shakes her blonde curls. Her slender fingers, two pressed together, push against his neck. _The grace has returned,_ she concludes, _and the vessel will heal in time._ There is something she knows she can do to assist him, and a small part wishes that someone had helped her so when she needed it.

"Our brothers… Bel," he says. "But I…I do not… understand…"

"Hush now," Barbelo says, and she kisses him gently on the forehead. The younger angel sighs, and as she places her fingers where her lips lay moments ago, his eyes flutter shut.

"Oh," he says, and Samandriel almost thinks he does not deserve the cool relief that follows after the angel touches him.

"Rest up, little soldier."

His breathing eases, and Samandriel is asleep.

_Sleeping charms are useful,_ she thinks, and heaves him onto her shoulder. His grace intact, she has her power once again; in the blink of an eye, they stand in a motel room where the air smells like tobacco and musk. The angel does not care, and gently places him onto the bed. His congealing blood smears against the rough mattress. She settles in the chair placed opposite; it is a creaky old thing, coffee stains ringed on its faded green fabric.

She watches the steady rise and fall of his chest, protected only by the slashed Weiner Hut uniform, red-and-white clothing soaked scarlet with his own blood. She offers a silent prayer to her still-absent Father, and to the garrison who had sent her on this mission. The rest of the garrison are still at the dungeon, battling the hordes of demons - she can feel the energy, and knows they are communicating, mind tuned into the appropriate frequency to overhear their conversations. And then the angel of goodness lifts her head to the sky, where the blinds let in a faint glow, and dwells upon what she had seen before.

Barbelo thanks her brothers; she knows it to be them, for who else would help? The shades of their vessels had given them away, even if their graces had not. She thanks them for their guidance and assistance, and a thin smile filled with longing spreads across her lips. She misses them. Her attention drifts towards the window, where the blinds are half-shut. She stares out, vacant, and tries to forget the fact that her brother, barely older than a fledgling, has been so brutally tortured.

_He's safe now, but what is to happen? Naomi is not the most sympathetic… _Barbelo's mind pauses as she thinks to the leader of her fierce new garrison. Her stomach curdles, as if they find out she had made even a slight diversion from orders – which she has already done by not taking Samandriel straight to Naomi – she would suffer. The plan involving Castiel, newly returned from Purgatory, has been explained, and she does not like it. But she is weak, and almost certainly alone in her opinion, so she holds her tongue. Barbelo can't help but wonder if Samandriel knows that his garrison's efforts have not been in vain, and that his older brother is free.

_Castiel has earned his punishment,_ she tells herself, though it does not ring pure in her heart. _They will be easier on Samandriel, but…_ She falters, not knowing how true the statement stands. The way he begs to be released, soft murmurings in his mother tongue as he sleeps an unnatural sleep, she guesses he spilled whatever information the King of Hell required. _Samandriel is unhappy. We may forgive him, but will he forgive himself?_

Barbelo sighs, a long breath leaving her skinny chest, and she stands. Without waking him, she lifts him easily now, cradling him in her arms. She pauses, face tinged with uncertainty, and speaks aloud.

"I thank you, Gabriel," she says, "and you too, Balthazar." She addresses the shades by their names this one time, knowing that afterward, she will speak of it to nobody. _Except Samandriel. Perhaps he will listen. Perhaps he will understand._

She holds the angel in her tender grasp, and shuts her eyes, shrouding herself in temporary darkness. There is a rush of air; the blinds rattle against the window and the door shakes against its squeaking hinges. A flutter of dull amber wings later, the room is empty.

Barbelo takes Samandriel back home.


	2. Two

Barbelo arrives with a soft thud, rolling from heels to toes as she lands. The office is spotless; only the purest white forms the material of the walls, floor, and even the couch.

She hears a gasp and without looking up, knows it to be Naomi. A moment passes before the head angel speaks.

"What have you _done_?"

Glancing up at her boss heading towards her, eyes fixed on the sleeping body in her arms, the angel shivers. She bristles at Naomi's presence, gaze not wavering from her form. The other angel then looks at her, the question repeated in her hard gaze.

"Rescued Samandriel, just as you asked."

"That was not my instruction." Naomi walked back to her desk, slow movements calculated as her fingertips brushed the piles of paper. "And you know it."

The blonde angel bows her head, a knot forming in her throat. It hurts her to be yelled at, to know she is wrong, yet she can't stop herself from answering back. "I misunderstood, and-"

"You paid the most attention when I instructed the garrison, Barbelo. You were aware of the plan; you were to find Samandriel, find his location, and report back to me. You know very well bringing him home is Castiel's job - part of his penance."

"I could not just leave him there, not after what they did to him. I could not leave him to die!"

"Your garrison had one task to complete and you showed utter disregard for all instruction, putting them in danger." Naomi turns to face Barbelo, eyes on fire. Her fist slams into the desk. "How dare you disobey a direct order!"

Barbelo jumps. The older angels freeze as Samandriel shifts in her arms; he twitches in his sleep, and his temporary guardian brushes a matted lock from his face before speaking.

"I... I am sorry." Her head sinks lower, and her teeth scrape her wobbling lower lip. Samandriel's weight starts to make itself known in her arms, which throb; yet she does not put him down. She is afraid. Afraid of Naomi, afraid of what she might do when enraged. Afraid that if she lets go, she may not get a chance to hold him again.

A pause descends, and though she wishes to look up, she holds her aching neck down, not wishing to see the wrath etched into her superior's face. Finally, Naomi speaks.

"You have disobeyed."

The tone of her voice holds contempt and anger; Barbelo's blood runs cold. Just like that, she knows what the other angel is to say. She raises her head.

"No. I will not do it." Her voice is firm and clear and rings in her ears, as if it is too loud and coming from somewhere else.

"You don't have a choice."

"Castiel fought for free will, and to look after us, his family. I think I have a choice."

Naomi narrowed her eyes. "He killed like a madman! He slaughtered hundreds in Heaven, my own brothers and sisters - our brothers and sisters. He must pay for his crimes."

Barbelo may have been a little older than a fledgling at the time of Castiel's initial rebellion, but she still remembers the starkness of the black, burnt, ashy wings against the green green grass. He had murdered. He had been wrong.

But even angels can change.

_It is all too much. Naomi is right; the choice, the free will – it was taken away a long time ago._ In fact, she doubts her kind ever had it. She feels her face twitch, and it is all she can do to stop herself breaking down right there. "Please… Do not make me do this."

"You will not suffer long, child."

"But he will," she murmurs, and drags her gaze back up. "He is here now. I have brought him home. Can Castiel not complete some other task for his penance?" It is not of Castiel she thinks, not any longer, but of the last dregs of her long-gone brothers who helped her save a living sibling. If she does what Naomi asks, she will be hurting them too.

"You know it is not so, and you know what you must do. One step at a time; it will all be over soon." Naomi's gaze softens, if only a smudge, and she turns to the desk, pulling out the chair and sitting. "Take him to that demon's new location; certainly it should not be too difficult to find." She smiles. "Now hurry; I should like to get this business dealt with before your garrison returns. We don't want to let them see what a mess you've made, do we?"

Barbelo nods, and bowing her head again, she can already feel the wetness streaking along her face. Swallowing the lump, she focuses. Her wings beat the air; in an amber whirl, she is gone.  
-

Naomi is right; the new location is easy to find, and her skin prickles. She wonders if it is because the demons expect someone. _I would not put it past those beasts, _she thinks. Samandriel sleeps in the motel. She does not like to leave him alone, but she runs on limited time, and cannot afford to carry him as she flits from warehouse to warehouse in Geneva, Nebraska, a location she managed to weevil from a straggler still at the original site of torture. As she travels, she realizes something, the reason why Naomi wants Samandriel back in the claws of the demons.

She does not want him alive any longer.

Barbelo's chest heaves as she breathes in slowly, trying to calm her speeding heart. She leans against the crumbling wall, splayed hand supporting her vessel on the peeling plaster. The place is cold and empty. Angelic sigils splashed across the windows and doors of the building are evident, and though they are not strong enough to keep her out, still draw on her strength as she creeps within its walls.

It is the emptiness that unnerves her.

_They wait,_ she thinks, heart turning stone cold. _They wait on their delivery, cowering from me, not wanting to be killed when I return what I stole._

Shutting her eyes, she tries to count backwards from ten, but with no avail. The blonde angel's eyes fill with tears and she chokes out a sob. Steeling herself again, she digs her heels into the ground, and pushes the door open, hand not even touching the rusting metal.

The first thing she notices is the room's size; it's smaller than the previous one. It's even colder than the hallway, but sunlight pours through the high, open windows. A chair sits in the centre, with thick straps across it at the shoulders, wrists and ankles. Empty rickety tables, silver and glistening, shake on their wheels she enters, and she knows it to be a room of torture.

Vision rising to the streaming sunlight, she bites down hard on her lip and flutters away, back to the motel where her brother sleeps; it is on the same stained bed, and he looks infinitely calm. Barbelo scoops him up, face streaked with tears as she cries quietly, wondering what Samandriel had done to deserve such a horrific fate.

"Brother," she says to him, "I am so, _so_ sorry."

He does not hear her. A soft whine leaves his lips.

Barbelo takes him back to the one place where she knows what is to happen to him. The journey there is quick, and when she arrives, shakes uncontrollably; she almost drops him onto the solid, grainy floor. Sitting him upon the metal chair, she straps him in, and notes the leather binds are not scratched with sigils. She assumes the demons will add adornment when they arrive to find the angel returned.

Looking at Samandriel, one would not guess the torture he has endured. Except the splashes of blood on his vessel's skin and clothes, of course, he looks healthier and more content than she has ever seen him; face free from worry and doubt, he reminds her of the young spirit scampering after her and her sisters and brothers in Joshua's garden.

"I must obey," she murmurs. "So long, little soldier."

She freezes as the door of the room clicks; in a flash she is invisible to all. She steps backwards, not once taking her stare off her brother, not wanting to leave him just yet. A man saunters in, a _demon_, wearing a dark suit, a glass of Scotch resting in one hand. A scampering, hunched man in a long white coat follows him; they both stop short when they see the sleeping Samandriel.

"Well, well, well." Crowley speaks first. "What do we have here?"

"Sir, this might be the angel," says the other, smirking.

"Evidently, Viggor, I don't hire you for your looks or intellect. Mind showing me what I do keep you around for?"

"If I can just unpack my torture tools and get to work, I'm sure we'll know what makes him tick."

Crowley pats Viggor on the shoulder, grinning. "I hope, for your sake, that's the case."

He saunters out, pausing for a moment beside the door, turning back to gaze at the angel and demon. "Looks like someone tidied him up for you. Best get him torn and bloody by the time I return."

"Of course."

The door creaks shut behind him.

She feels the sickness invade her stomach, and she wants nothing more than to smite the demon before her and whisk her brother to safety. But she has to face the consequences of her actions. This is part of her punishment. She loathes herself.

Lingering a while longer, she watches the demon sharpen his blades against each other and murmur to himself, his excitement mirroring the one of a scientist on the brink of a life-changing discovering or that of a wide-eyed child. He carves the binding sigil into the leather, and Barbelo knows it to be too late. Raising the sharper of the two weapons, Viggor tries to rouse Samandriel using his words. After a few seconds of threats stirring no action, he drives the blade into the angel's arm.

Samandriel wakes.

She holds her breath, biting down hard of her lip to stop herself from uttering a sound; she can taste her own rusty blood. Her mouth curls down, and the tears do not cease.

Spurred on by the opening of the helpless angel's blue eyes, the demon grins, reveals his black orbs, and twists the blade deliberately, onyx gaze fixed on the contorting face before him.

Her brother screams.

The blonde turns to face the graffiti-covered wall, and focuses her energy on the trip to a place that no longer feels like home. It takes more concentration to leave a place swarming with signs, and she tries to ignore Samandriel's agonized cries. Eventually, her wings stop quivering; bowing her head, she returns to the sky.  
-

Upon her arrival in Heaven, the angel of goodness struggles to hold it together. Her stare is wide and unable to focus on a thing, and her mind feels like a hundred beasts claw at it; she cannot think straight.

Her landing is rougher, and she holds onto the bright white couch to steady herself. When she looks up, Naomi is standing over her, staring.

"Did you do as I said?" Her voice is cool.

Barbelo nods.

"Did you _ensure_ it?"

"Yes," she whispers. The tears streak her face.

"Excellent." Naomi returns to her chair. Crossing her arms, she looks down at the angel under her command, lips set in a grim line. "Your garrison has returned, and wonders where you are. Are you going to break the news to them or shall I?"

"I-I cannot..."

"Of course not. You have one more price to pay."

Barbelo is too exhausted to argue, or to even fight the being about to destroy her. Brushing the tears away with her hand, she swallows down her sobs, staring straight ahead. Looking past Naomi, past the white walls, past the false structure of the office, she sees the shapes again, the dull glow which she knows will brighten. She smiles weakly.

The angel blade rests in her palm now, the silver tool glittering, weight familiar and heavy. Her eyes close, and she can feel them again; the same two who helped her save her brother. Green and yellow and blue and white, their graces shine, brighter than the artificial white encasing them. For a moment, she is at rest. The blade is hoisted high, point aiming at her stomach, and after a slow, drawn breath, it plunges.

Burning. The flare of the weapon against her grace is all she feels. Her mouth opens to cry out, and all that comes is a low gasp. She stares down at her bloody hands, looking from the wound to her blade. Everything seems to flare brighter for a moment, and then it begins to dim. White fades to gray, her gray sweater to black, and the blood on her hands to a dark, deep, indigo.

The glows seep in through the walls, and she stares up at Naomi; the brunette angel flinches as if she feels the presence, but if she can see them, she does not react. Her gaze drifts to the scene before her, then back to her paperwork.

"You did alright, kid," says the energy to her left, and she turns her head to see the visage of Gabriel. He smiles. "You did what you could."

For a moment, she wonders if the madness has eaten her, and then the pain takes away all other thoughts. She sways.

"Gabriel and I, we'll watch him." Balthazar's smile makes his vessel's face light up, small creases forming in delicate skin.

"It is too late for Samandriel," she whispers, "but please, please watch over Castiel."

"We'll do what we can for Cassie." Barbelo cannot help but chuckle at the much-loathed nickname.

"The others; Anael… Raphael… Hester..." Her voice is slipping, barely above a murmur now, and her grace dies. "Are they with you?"

"They've moved on, Bel. Just like you will."

"But why... are you... still..." They hold her up now, and when Gabriel shakes his head, she realizes this is the end.

The grace of an angel shrivels after being burnt by a weapon, and when it is their own weapon delivering the fatal blow, it is considered the ultimate betrayal. Screams of injustice echo through the angel's mind as she falls. The forces around her flicker and fade, and her last sight is that of the angel who commanded her death. She wonders if she will frolic alongside her dead brethren through the stars and nebulae like Michael had once told the fledglings. She shines bright for a moment, and the light dims behind her eye. Her grace flickers out.

Barbelo is alone when she dies.

Naomi watches the angel seep from the vessel, blue glow rimmed around the red of the gash fading away. Returning to the papers on her desk, she shuffles them, wondering what Heaven, and she, has come to.  
-

**A/N:**_ Torn and Frayed gave me a lot of emotions, and I then realised this story could be canon-compliant. I rarely pass up a chance to write angst. Feel free to let me know what you thought of it. You can favourite it if you deem it worthy, and thanks for reading!_


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